


A Happy Pair They Made

by Dryad



Series: Night Moves [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, M/M, NC17, Omega Variant, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:23:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2593427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As soon as he entered the room, John knew he was in trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Happy Pair They Made

**Author's Note:**

> After weeks of waffling, I'm putting this out as is.

As the taxi pulled away, John stared at the house he had lived in for three years. It had only been a few days since he had left, and yet it was odd, being back. Especially now that he was back with an agenda.

The house looked like…a house. It was a Georgian terraced house, white, with windows taller than himself. In a break from tradition, the stairs and black front door were in the center, with two windows on either side for a frontage four windows wide. In his mind's eye he knew that behind the door was the foyer and the hallway and the stairs leading above and below. In the back of the house stood the walled garden, which depending on the season was either a long stretch of brilliant green intermittently broken with flowers and shrubs and a white graveled walkway, or a long stretch of builders supplies as the Major tried whatever was newly fashionable in garden design.

The strangest part was how little he felt about being back. He was not eager to go inside, but neither was he anxious. It was as though his time here had been some strange, ethereal dream, as if he had stood still in the middle of a swirl of fog, waiting and waiting and waiting for his life to begin again.

Next to him, Sherlock made an indistinct sound, enough to break John's rumination. Yes…waiting for his life to begin was no longer something with which he had to concern himself.

"Ready?" asked Sherlock. "You remember what we discussed?"

"Yes, yes," John answered. "Impatience will get you nowhere, y'know."

"Quite the contrary, John!" Sherlock jogged up the front steps. Finger ready to push the door bell button, he turned back to look at John. "Impatience gets me where I want to go, when I want to get there."

John shook his head. A terrible mix of…not even metaphors. He was sure what Sherlock meant was more along the lines of "I do what I want, when I want, because I am on _fire!_ " rather than just being an idiot too excited to calm down and think about what he was doing. He could admit to himself that he had been the same. Admittedly he had been six, possibly seven years old before that attitude had been nipped in the bud by his parents.

Joining Sherlock on the landing, he just had to turn and look at the neighborhood. All those white Georgian houses - who knew what terrible deeds lurked behind the front doors? Only once had he heard sirens, a time when both Thaddeus and the Major were abroad on one of their spa trips (and how he had fallen for _that_ one was beyond his comprehension when he thought about it now). He had crept to the window and held the curtains open a hands width apart, rain from the evening's storm still dribbling down the panes. Blues and twos were at an angle in the middle of the street, the ambulance crew helping someone wearing a shiny silver emergency blanket down the stairs, another person being stretchered into a second ambulance, yet a third person standing in the open door, the light from the hallway throwing them into relief and shadow. Then the figure in the door quickly stepped aside, as two police brought a struggling, bare chested, bare-footed man outside. 

John had watched for awhile, wondering who had done what to whom. Of course no one would tell him anything the next morning, not Peter, not Cat, not Ella. He could tell by their guilty looks that they all knew what had happened, and he figured it had to be some kind of Alpha/Omega thing. More of the forbidden things he was supposed to keep shtum about. For what reason, he had never figured out. Even though he knew nothing, _nothing_. He had a new husband now, or he would have a new husband once he signed the contract (once they had sex to see if they were compatible and he still was not sure this was legitimate at _all_ ), and speaking of which, what would happen if he -

The door opened. An older woman John had never seen before looked at them coldly. She wore, for the love of God, an actual maid's uniform in black and white, complete with doily on the top of her head. He desperately wanted to glance at Sherlock, share the moment with him. 

Clearly finding them wanting in all respects, the maid pursed her lips and said, "Yes?"

Sherlock reached into his coat, pulled out a card, then held it out to her. "Sherlock Holmes to see Major Sholto."

She took the card, stepped back to let them in. When they were through she closed it behind them, then gestured towards the parlour. "If you'll wait in here, I'll see if he's available."

As soon as he entered the room, John knew he was in trouble. He felt his cheeks begin to heat with remembered shame, and he surreptitiously passed a hand through his hair, wiping away the sudden burst of sweat on his brow. He lingered by the door, listening to the maid's footsteps die away as she went down the hall. He watched Sherlock drift around the room, quickly rifling through a few papers left on the open desk of the secretary. 

He had only been in this room three times. Each instance had been a near out-of-body experience. His introduction to the Major, the party the Major had thrown later that evening, and of course the night of the dissolution of his marriage. Despite his previous thoughts only minutes earlier that he was unaffected by being back inside the house, the inner tension he was starting to feel left him with no doubt that he had been lying to himself.

He wanted out. Maybe he would like that wallpaper in a different house, in different circumstances. Or those leather chairs, they would be nice in the flat, if perhaps a little overstuffed. No, Sherlock would never go for those, too formal, too class conscious. Made to impress, not comfort, not that John would know, he had never sat in any of the furniture in this room. No, he liked Sherlock's style. He liked the brown-red chair he had taken for his own, the skull on the mantle, the earphones and bullhorns and books and tea and Mrs. Hudson.

He liked having his own room. 

Sherlock abruptly whirled in a great flare of dramatic coat and mouthed, "John."

With luck, the Major was elsewhere and this was a wasted journey and they could go home and -

"Hallo John," The Major barely glanced at him as he swept in, heading directly towards Sherlock with one arm already extended. "Mr. Holmes, how good to meet you at last."

John had only known Sherlock a few days, but that anyone could not see how fake his smile was when he shook the Major's hand was surprising, to say the least. Although this was the Major, he was the kind of man who outside of his immediate comforts politely would not notice his own feet if they were on fire. In short, he was very English, a member of that peculiar, not-quite-upper class social strata. The Major was _suffered_ by his 'friends' with money because he did not have any himself - or so John would have thought only last week, before he knew about the Human trafficking.

"Would you like coffee or tea? Perhaps something stronger?" asked the Major, edging towards the sideboard.

Sherlock shook his head. "Thank you, no. I was wondering, Major Sholto, if your son was in today?"

"Thaddeus? No, no. He's gone to London on business."

"May I inquire as to the nature of that business?"

The Major clasped his hands behind his back. "Is he in some sort of trouble?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say," answered Sherlock, mirroring the Major's pose.

"Your brother, Mr. Holmes, said you were some kind of private eye? Is that true?"

"I'm a consulting detective, Major Sholto, the only one in the world."

"I see…" 

"That means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

The Major sat down hard on the sofa, which made an unfortunate 'whumpf'. John just caught the stutter of Sherlock's eyelids and immediately knew Sherlock was doing his best not to smile. 

"He's my son, Mr. Holmes," began the Major wearily. "And I love him, but I am not so blind to his faults as he thinks. I know he's mixed up in some kind of nonsense - no," he said, holding up one hand. "I don't know what, nor do I care to know. His friends might be able to give you a better answer."

Still by the door and out of the Major's direct line of sight, John stared at Sherlock with furrowed brows. Sherlock was downright telepathic at times, maybe he would be able to hear John's mental shouts of _WE KNOW HE'S LYING!_

"Of course," said Sherlock, completely ignoring John. "While I was admiring your walls - 'Earlham' by de Gournay. Handpainted on Williamsburg Blue-Green dyed silk with just a touch of Pitch. Expensive when you order the custom colors, what, 700 pound a panel. My grandmere had her cabinet de toilette done Earlham in pale violet. While looking at your lovely wallpaper I happened to notice a bill of lading on your desk, from Hellas Maritime."

"Yes," said the Major. He shrugged. "Thaddeus deals with so many companies in his duties with the Government. He often brings such paperwork home. He has been cleared to do so by the Minister."

Sherlock took the papers from the desk, shuffled through them quickly before plucking one out. "What about PGR Shipping? Based in Felixstowe, with another bill of lading for five containers of, and I quote, 'mixed goods'. And then there's Wilson-Lachance Integrated Supply - "

"Well, what _about_ it?" answered the Major testily. "I can't give you any more details than you can read yourself."

"Then come look, and tell me what you know."

The Major shook his head, heaved himself off the sofa so forcefully John knew he was faking. The gym in the attic had not been put there to keep John fit, and why the Major should feel the need to lie in front of Sherlock, especially if he had heard about Sherlock from Mr. Holmes? Maybe it was a test, to see if Sherlock really was as good as he said.

Movement out of the corner of John's eye caught his attention and he turned slightly - Cat, grinning widely, made 'come hither' motions at him. He hurriedly looked back at Sherlock and the Major, who still had their backs to him while they pored over more paperwork at the secretary. Quietly slipping out of the room, he swiftly walked to Cat, who threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight.

"So happy to see you!" she said quietly, rubbing his back hard. After a moment she pulled back to stare him in the eye. "You all right?"

He nodded, blinked to get the sudden excess moisture out of his eyes. "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks for the forty quid, by the way. Got myself a proper sandwich, tea, and a truly terrible cup of coffee with it."

She lunged forward and hugged him again before releasing him, only to grab his hand instead. "Good. What are you doing back here? You're not coming back, are you? I've got money, I've got a bank card if you want - "

"No, no, it's fine, it's all fine," he said, shaking his head. So sweet of her to offer. "I can't pay you back yet, but I will, don't worry."

"I'm not. I'm just so _fucking glad_ you're not here any more. But why are you here? Does your husband know?"

"He's, ah, with me," John jerked his head back toward the parlour. "Talking with the Major. Cat, do you know where Thaddeus is?"

"Sorry, no. But you know he's got that office somewhere in the City. Peter's been there, you should ask him about it."

Yeah, last thing he wanted to do was talk to Peter.

Cat shook her head again, her eyes gentle. "He misses you a lot, John."

John only realized how stiff his face had become after he tried to smile. He forced it, made himself look forgiving for her sake. "He put me through the shit, Cat. He, he helped, with Thaddeus, y'know."

"He'll never say it to your face, but he cried the day you left. I don't think either one of us knew how much we were going to miss you. The difference is I knew you'd be better off."

Which was very nice to hear. However, it did not change John's resentment or anger. He could never tell Cat, though. She would only try to make him forgive Peter completely, and then he would have to pretend to actually do it, which would piss him off even more. And then he would feel resentment and guilt towards _her_ , and the whole thing would be even more of a mess. "Is he here?"

"He's upstairs, I think. The Major's asked him to pack him a bag for a few days journey."

Oh really? "Where's he going?"

"Rotterdam? I think?" She grimaced in confusion. "Or maybe it was Amsterdam? Somewhere over that way, I didn't really hear what he said over the noise of the blender. I was making a green smoothie, you want some?"

Distracted by the new information, he nodded, paid no attention as she headed down into the kitchen. The green one was bound to have either spinach or kale in it, both of which he loved, especially when they were on someone else's plate. Rotterdam, though. One of Europe's largest ports, with thousands of containers and cargo ships going in and out every year. And, also one of the most secure ports in the world. Was Thaddeus shipping people all around Europe? How was it possible he had never been caught? In fact, that was the question they should have been asking all along - how on earth could Thaddeus be a one man operation? The answer was, of course he was not. There had to be underlings, higher ups. And that meant going up the ranks of the Foreign Office, and if both the Junior Minister and the head civil servant were involved, oh, oh _yes_. What if, and now he was sure he was on to something, what if someone wanted Mr. Holmes out of the way because it would make it easier for them to transport more people into the country? What if Mr. Holmes was the stopgap, or, or, or what if he had figured out Thaddeus was the one rubber stamping all those visas and Thaddeus discovered this and got him out of the way? _Christ_ , this could be conspiracy against the very Government! He had to tell Sherlock as soon as they were out of the house.

John was reaching for the door when a voice came from the hallway. He froze. 

"John? Were you even going to say hello?"

John took a deep breath, released it, turned around. "Peter."

Wide-eyed, Peter slowly approached John as if John were a wild animal ready to be tamed. "How are you? Are you doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good, I'm fine," said John, feeling the truth of his words lock in. He knew the panic attacks would continue for awhile, yet there was no doubt they were going to stop, and sooner rather than later. "Yourself?"

"Oh, I'm alright," Peter kept looking John up and down. Finally, he shook his head and smiled ever so slightly. "You're different."

"In a good way or a bad way?"

"Good. Definitely good. You seem more confident in yourself."

Cat silently appeared next to Peter, glancing up at him with a slight smile before handing John a tall drinks container. The top was closed, the container cool and growing colder. "Thanks, Cat-man-du."

"Anytime, John Hamish Watson."

A silence fell, one which John was loathe to break even while he was desperate to get back to Sherlock's side and out of this house. 

"So - " began Peter.

"So - " started Cat. They looked at one another and chuckled. 

"You first," John said, nodding at Cat and folding his arms across his chest.

"I just wanted to say, I hope you'll always consider me a friend."

A genuine smile tugged at John's lips. "Of course. "

"Yeah."

"John, do y- " Peter stopped, and both he and Cat subtly straightened and stilled.

John immediately did the same, realizing _even as he was doing so_ that the reason for their behavior was probably Sherlock. He turned and yes, Sherlock and Major Sholto were headed towards the foyer. "See you later," he said under his breath to Cat and Peter, handing the smoothie back to her, then followed Sherlock and the Major. He was forced to a halt behind the Major on the steps just outside the front door.

"Ah, John," said the Major, stepping back to face John squarely. "Thaddeus thought he might see you in London."

"Oh?"

"He decided to drop in on Anne Elliot. Said he might convince her to hire you, now that you can handle medicine again."

"Yes, what a brilliant idea, where is her office located?" asked Sherlock, smiling his fake smile.

"The City, Silver Place, Elliot and Fineman Medical Group."

As it turned out, hours later, Anne Elliot knew nothing. Yes, she had a medical practice in Silver Close, an enclosed, vaguely triangular Victorian yard just off of Silver Place, and yes, she knew Thaddeus Sholto, a friend of a friend when she was in Oxford. He was harmless enough, though obviously interested in her as the potential mother of his children, like that was going to happen. Besides, he was the kind of Alpha that made smart Omegas run away as fast as they could, and she was a _very_ smart Omega, thank you very much. 

Her gaze briefly fell upon John as she spoke about her life as an Omega. He let his lips quirk up, even though smiling was not on his agenda. What the hell had Thaddeus said about him to make her look at him like that? He had done nothing wrong, dammit. When she made no further comment, he was more than happy to get the hell out of there. Even Sherlock was back to his normal poncey self, having overcome whatever the problem he had been thinking about on the train. John was sure something had happened between the Major and Sherlock. The expression on Sherlock's face as the Major spoke to John - he could not decipher it. There was annoyance, and - what? Worry? Concern? Possession? He wished he could figure it out. Given enough time, he would, but it would be so handy if he knew right now what Sherlock was thinking.

It was all Thaddeus' fault anyway. There had been a time when John could give a cheery 'fuck off' to anyone who said nonsense to his face, following it up with a fist if necessary. Three years with Thaddeus had taught him differently. He understood the value of knowing a person so well you could tell what they were going to do next. Particularly if your personal safety was involved. _Especially_ if your own personal safety was involved. Though Thaddeus only ever hurt John during his heats, John never felt he could trust Thaddeus to keep up his end of their unspoken bargain. If by 'bargain' you meant 'forced marriage with no legal rights' and 'as close to indentured servitude as possible without calling it that'.

"You're thinking very loudly," Sherlock said, striding through the archway so quickly John had to trot a couple of steps to keep up.

"Oh, y'know, a lot on my mind."

"She's not as smart as she thinks," Sherlock glanced at John with a knowing smile, then leaned sideways to say, "They had an appointment this morning at Whitehall."

John stared at him, dumbfounded, before grinning. "Brilliant!"

Sherlock's brows drew together slightly. "It was written on her wall calendar," A moment later he drew out his phone and began texting.

For his part, John simply enjoyed the walk. It was good to be outdoors, enjoy the fresh air, watch life in the city. He could almost pretend he was a free man again. 

John had just taken the second bite of his chicken and sweetcorn sandwich when Sherlock received a text and rocketed to his feet, his chair scraping against the floor in a high squeal. Startled, John froze, staring up at him wide-eyed along with several other customers at the cafe they had stopped in.

"We have a lead. Come on," Sherlock said, heading towards the door in long strides.

John hastily chewed and swallowed, stuffed the remainder of his chicken and sweetcorn in his pocket. Hoping he had wrapped it tightly enough. He really did not want a repeat of the Mike Incident. Mayonnaise stains were a bitch to get out of cloth, and for months afterward his wallet had smelled funny. 

"Where are we going, then?" he called, having caught up with Sherlock just in time to see a black taxicab stop at the kerb. Seriously, how did the man do it?

"Back to the City!" Sherlock was already in and rapping on the cab's partition window by the time John was getting himself seated. "Silver Close, if you please, as quick as you can."

The cabbie floored it, leaving John to recover as best he could after being slammed into the back of the seat. Right, so this was how it was going to be. He managed to get his seatbelt on, shifted until his arse were actually on his seat.

"Thaddeus has been seen entering Silver Close. He was carrying a rolling suitcase, which suggests either flight or instruments Anne Elliot does not have on hand. No doubt Elliot and Fineman have a basement level in their practice, perhaps even a sub-level or a basement adjoining another building in the Close. It would be a convenient place not only to keep Anthea and my brother, but any illegal immigrant as well."

"Of course," murmured John, grabbing for the overhead support as the cab took another corner too fast. "As long as we get there in one piece," he said loudly, just in case the driver was _not_ eavesdropping through the cab's intercom. "You think it'll just be the two of them?"

Sherlock shrugged. "There's no telling, John. I will be very surprised if that's the case - " he paused to send a text - "but that's what I have you for."

"Right," John said, looking out the window and feeling inordinately pleased by Sherlock's words. Again, it was ridiculous, what Sherlock said about him given how long they had actually known one another, and yet. A confirmation of how John used to feel; a _damned fine_ doctor, a damned good lover, and a capable, sturdy, bad-ass motherfucker of a soldier. He caught sight of his own slight, but satisfied smile reflected in the window and had to fight not to smile wider. No need to get cocky, Watson.

Dusk was coming on hard, now, sun yellow neon OPEN signs and blue headlamps and red taillights turning into a melange of city life. John found himself unbearably eager for what was coming. He felt like a dog leashed and ready for the sprint, chasing that rabbit down. Oh _yes_.

Silver Place had closed up for the evening. The office windows were dark, and women in skimpy gold lame dresses, fake fur coats, ankle-breaker heels, and glitter in their hair rushed by John and Sherlock giggling madly, as out of place in the City as he would be in Buckingham Palace. The archway leading to Silver Close was darker, and through it the Victorian yard itself was poorly lit from a curtained window on the first floor, the light barely reaching the ground in one solitary rectangle.

John stood next to Sherlock in the deepest recess of the archway, watching him send yet another text before shoving his phone into his pocket. Glancing at the front of Elliot and Fineman, he wondered if Thaddeus was already inside, or if he had left with Anne Elliot. She was already contracted, bonded, even, to her spouse, an Alpha from the Unthank branch. Good luck to him, was what John thought about that.

"There's going to be a power failure in GreenBank's Security system in approximately - "

The upstairs light flickered, stayed on, abruptly went off.

"Early," muttered Sherlock.

His senses heightened by the darkness, John was aware of Sherlock moving towards the office, and silently followed. He wished he had the gun, but as the saying went, if wishes were horses, he would have a stable full. He caught up to Sherlock, heard faint scratching sounds and understood Sherlock was working his magic with lock pins again. The seconds passed while John became increasingly nervous. Not of the lights going back on, rather that someone inside would appear, discovering the two of them. Jeans, oatmeal jumper and olive drab jacket did not for night-time camouflage make.

"Come on," Sherlock whispered.

John followed him inside, now seriously wishing he had the gun and a torch to see what the hell he might be shooting at. Neither were available, he would have to make do. Improvise, that's what he was going to do.

The shades on the front windows had been drawn, which apparently meant Sherlock felt free to use his pocket torch with impugnity. Having already seen the layout upstairs in their earlier visit, they headed towards the stairwell that was halfway between reception and Dr. Elliot's personal office. With only one torch between them they could not split up - not that John would be inclined to do so anyway - and after a moment's hasty and emphatically gestural silent argument, John convinced Sherlock to go upstairs first. 

There were several exam rooms, a closet of linen and paper supplies, another of equipment John was not surprised to find outside of a hospital, not in the the City. Interesting, though, the drop in the level of decor from ultra modern to something altogether more traditional. The floral wallpaper was a dead giveaway. Back downstairs again, a quick left turn from hallway onto the downstairs riser, let's be very quiet now, Watson. 

The silence was absolute. Not even the stairs creaked, and when they reached the next floor, at the slight touch on his shoulder John halted, so Sherlock could whisper into his ear.

"Original basement level, old coal scuttle and original kitchen on your left, refurbished as bathroom and staff lounge," he flicked the torch downwards. "Note the wear on the linoleum. You'd think the pattern would be to the left, but you can see it's very worn towards the right." 

John looked and yes, Sherlock was correct. The green and white checkerboard lino was indeed scuffed and stained from heavy wear. The hallway receded into darkness, yet with his heightened sensitivity he could tell there was a handleless door at the end marked 'private', an electronic keypad set into the wall next to it. There were only two other doors he could see. Pushing past Sherlock, he said, "This way." 

There were two other doors, one on either side of the hallway. One was another storage closet filled with cleaning supplies, the other a narrow coat room with a few forgotten jumpers and raincoats hanging from hooks in the walls. Glancing at the floor, John saw scuff marks leading directly under the door. He took the torch Sherlock offered, pointed it at the keypad, watched Sherlock get to work in it. Unfortunately there was no way to not spoil the surprise of their entrance, and depending on who and what was inside, John sincerely hoped he and Sherlock were not also in for an unpleasant surprise. Sherlock pressed the asterisk on the keypad and there was a quiet snick as the door popped open and a powerful overhead light came on. 

Without a glance at John, Sherlock pushed the door open further and forged ahead. 

Cursing under his breath, John quickly followed, blinking against the brightness of the light. He took in the room with a single visual sweep before turning and making sure the door remained open by using the torch as a block. The room was paneled in white. The floor was still the checkerboard, but only for a half meter inside before becoming only the white lino. A fake out, to make people think the hallway continued. None of that truly mattered, though, because Sherlock was crouched by a black bag at the side of a stretcher, where a man in pale blue scrubs had been tied down. 

John took the few steps necessary to reach his new patient. The man wore thick, black rimmed glasses just like Eric Morecambe. Turning his head to the side, he refused to look at John. "Hey mate, it's alright. Name's John Watson, the bloke at my feet is Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. We'll get you out of here in two shakes."

The first strap John tried to undo was so tight it took some effort to undo it. He lacked leverage, but persevered and finally got one of the man's wrists freed. John made the most cursory of examinations and yes, the hand was swollen but already beginning to redden from the flush of blood. The man gasped, whimpered a little. John hmm'd in sympathy. He could only imagine the pins and needles. On the other hand, pain was a good sign the tissue was not permanently damaged. Hopefully. He felt a tug on his trouser leg, looked down to see Sherlock holding up a plastic card with a picture on it. Ah, identification. Oh, now that was a surprise. 

Sherlock stood and loomed over the stretcher. "Dr. Lalonde, we've been looking for you since you left Rome."

John glared at Sherlock as he moved around to the other side of the table. Seriously, not the time or place for that kind of accusatory tone. He undid Lalonde's other wrist and the waist strap, then the restraints around each ankle. "How much time do we have left?"

"I have no idea," answered Sherlock, rifling through the bag one more time. 

"Then let's get out of here before Security shows up!" 

"Yes, let's."

Unbelievable. "Alright, Dr. Lalonde, this is going to hurt like hell but I'm afraid you don't have a choice. C'mon, up we get."

Lalonde did not resist, at least not until he put weight on his feet. John caught his arm when he buckled, slung Lalonde's arm around his shoulders. "That's it, one foot in front of the other."

The going was slow and John felt the opprobrium from Sherlock with every step, not that John gave a damn what Sherlock thought. Sherlock had clearly never spent any time ill, for any reason, if he thought that skipping from a hospital bed was a walk in the park. Lalonde was hobbling along as best he could, clearly in pain. The stink of stale fear was strong in the air, the acrid odor of fresh sweat adding to the miasma of Lalonde's unwashed body. John knew from personal experience that length of time was no barrier to smelling like the inside of a trainer.

By the time the three of them reached the top of the stairs, a good ten minutes had passed since Sherlock and John had broken in to the building. As they walked to the front door, lights splashed across the door. John's heart leapt into his throat at the sight and he had to pause to gather his thoughts. If that was the security agency, they were going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do. Although…he was a doctor, and Lalonde was clearly incapacitated. Or he would be by the time whoever was outside reached the door. "Sherlock - _Sherlock!_ "

Sherlock turned halfway towards John, but the bobbing light was behind him now and John could not make out his expression. Even so, he was shocked when Sherlock opened the door. For the moment John entertained the idea of shoving Lalonde behind the reception desk and diving after him, hoping whoever was outside would only see Sherlock and ignore the two of them, and then Sherlock stepped aside.

"Sherlock, what - ?" started John, loathe to give up his patient to a stranger.

"We've got him, Dr. Watson," called a man with a basso profundo voice. "You can let him go, now."

"Who are you?," John shaded his eyes with his hand. The two torches ahead were some kind of blue-white bright, so bright it hurt to look at them directly. "Where are you taking him? Sherlock, what's going on here?"

"It's fine, John," replied Sherlock, stepping back to let the men walk Dr. Lalonde into the yard. 

"It bloody well isn't. This man needs a hospital and a thorough going over - " With lips pursed in frustration, John released Lalonde to his new caretakers. 

"Miss Peters wanted you to know that no harm will come to Dr. Lalonde, Dr. Watson. She said every effort would be made to make sure he comes back to full capacity," said the other man over Lalonde's shoulder. In some kind of surreal comedy del'arte, his voice was high-pitched. "She was very specific that you be made aware."

Lalonde jerked to a halt just inside the front door of the practice. He tried to speak, coughed, coughed again. "… Pe'rs?" 

"Cassie Peters," Sherlock reached with one long arm and held Lalonde in place. "What did she tell you?"

John approached as Lalonde frowned, visibly trying to organize his thoughts. No, not Cassie. "Harry Pearce?"

"Mr. Holmes?" asked Sherlock.

Lalonde nodded, swayed a little on his feet. 

"Tall fellow? Ginger hair? Very poncy?" asked John, ignoring whatever expression might have appeared on Sherlock's face.. "You met him in Aberdeen?"

Again, Lalonde nodded, but then his head rolled back on his shoulders and he sagged, held up only by the men who had been leading him outside. 

One of the men lifted Lalonde onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry and headed toward the arch leading to the street, while the other said, "That's enough, gentlemen. You want to talk to him some more, you get permission from Miss Peters."

Sherlock followed them, phone already held up to his ear. John was surprised, up until that point he had just assumed that Sherlock always texted. Taylor in Medical had been like that, too. The only time she was ever off her phone was either in theatre or while having sex, and even then John had been the recipient of more than one selfie taken in the middle of the act. 

"Nothing within Aberdeen? Then check Elliot, Fineman, or Elliot and Fineman Medical Practice…within all of London. Check their relatives and relatives of relatives…yes… _yes_."

Unbelievably, the street was empty. John took note of the security cameras and hoped like hell Sherlock's minions, or whomever was watching the things, were good enough to erase anything incriminating. Like the two of them creeping about Silver Close. The thought of being caught thrilled him. Which was possibly not good, but hey, who was going to mention it to Ella or any other therapist? "Any chance of getting a bite to eat? Oh wait, never mind."

There were many ways to feel the fool around Sherlock Holmes, John decided, unwrapping his sandwich. He took a bite, chewed, decided he was done with sweetcorn in any sandwich, tossed it into a nearby bin. Now he just needed something to take the taste away. Asian food? Curry or Chinese? Thai? Korean? He was in the mood for hot and spicy, something with lots of pepper - Szechuan pepper steak, or bibimbap, yeah, either one of those would do quite nicely.

"I know a great little Chinese place around the corner from 221B," said Sherlock, nearly reading John's mind.

"Sounds good - " John paused as Sherlock brought his phone out. He was beginning to think it was maybe surgically attached to Sherlock's gloved hand. And really, how was he even able to type with gloves on?

Things happened quite quickly after that. While in the taxi Sherlock had flagged down (because of course), Sherlock received yet another text message. He flashed John a satisfied grin and told the driver to head back towards the old docklands. John hoped they were going to a different neighborhood; being seen twice in one week in a tight community was asking for trouble. He might be able to get away with pleading that he was in the wrong place, yet Sherlock, no, that was not about to happen. 

As it turned out, they did not go to Bridge End Station or Terminus, as John had half expected. No, this time they ended up amidst the warehouses by the estuary. John watched the taxi drive off with a little trepidation. Yes, he was confident in his own abilities to handle himself - hell, tagging after Sherlock had given him the boost he had not realized he needed so desperately. 

The warehouses looked like any other in industrial London; buildings of brick and stone on either side of old roads, some of them still cobbled. A few had rusting metal shutters leading into parking areas, and above all, remote sounds of traffic drowned out by the cries of seagulls. John instantly felt at home. They weren't in Afghanistan, but the feeling of isolation lingered, the chance that someone could be watching no different here than there. God, if only he had been able to return to Baker Street and get the damned gun. The point was moot, now. John took point. 

The street lamps were few, and far between. John was alert to any odd footstep besides their own, a mismatch in sound. The shadows were dark, and deep, and he wanted to keep close to them. In silence, they walked for some ten minutes before Sherlock slowed, turning off the street they were on onto something even darker. He crouched down, belling his coat around his legs. A moment later the brightness of his phone's screen shattered John's night vision, forcing him to move behind Sherlock to let his eyes readjust. And, incidentally, hide Sherlock from any potential viewers. That phone was as clear a sign as John could think of to let someone know where they were. He scanned the street, the buildings opposite, the shadows. In the distance came the revving of an engine, then all became quiet and still, even the gulls giving it up for the night.

There was a scrape on the pavement, then over John's shoulder, Sherlock whispered, "This way."

Continuing down the alley Sherlock had chosen, they made a right turn, a left, another right. They stopped in front of a tall gray door in the center of an otherwise featureless brick wall that ran the length of the block. Looking up, John could just make out a peaked roof against London's glow in the night sky. Sherlock began feeling the door, leaning on it, pressing his ear against it while he gently tapped with one gloved finger. Sherlock had proven himself just impatient enough to get himself killed and John had already decided that was not about to happen on his watch, so he slipped under Sherlock's arm and simultaneously tried the door handle while gently pushing on the door itself. Rather ominously, it opened without a squeak or a rattle. Why? Because in this lonely, empty, vacant street, the door was unlocked.

John thanked his heightened sensitivity to light as he quickly stepped inside and to the left, where there was nothing on the floor or hanging on the wall apart from a fire extinguisher. Sherlock followed, flattening himself on the wall next to John, closing the door behind himself.

John took a deep breath. Mustiness was in the air, more than a hint of damp and dirt, wooden boxes, plastic wrap. Above that was the acrid scent of roasted coffee beans, the wet, burned wood stink of an angry Alpha. He closed his eyes, and yes, a touch of guano, so there were probably birds in the rafters. Despite the size of the door, the room felt wide open and empty. Beyond that, without a light, not even he could lead Sherlock any further. Speaking of which -

"There's no one here," said Sherlock quietly, sweeping the beam from his pocket torch to and fro. 

"That's not the point!" John hissed, outraged that their cover was already broken when up to this point they had been so careful. Nothing to do but go forward. Sherlock had about as much common sense as a match to a flame, and John,taking this into consideration, made sure he stayed close. 

Though Sherlock's torch flickered over the odd wooden crate, the rest of the building appeared to be empty. And yes, there were pigeons living in the rafters, their eyes glowing an eerie red whenever Sherlock pointed the torch upwards. Finally John said, "There's nothing here."

"There _has_ to be!"

Shocked by the vehemence in Sherlock's voice, John paused in what he had been about to say. The man was actually worried after all, no need to make a smart arsed comment about his carelessness. Maybe, however, what he needed was a more…military…approach. "Right," he said. "There has to be another entrance, there's no way these crates would fit through that door."

"There _is_ no other door," Sherlock snarled, whirling away dramatically, the skirt of his coat knocking against John's knees.

With perfect timing, something slammed above their heads. John jumped, glanced at Sherlock - who looked equally startled. As one, they both looked up. Motes of dust drifted through the air in the light of the torch, while the roof was no more than pale greyness shading to black. 

"Block and tackle," Sherlock said softly.

Yes, John could just see it. Keeping an eye on the beam from which the block hung, he eventually reached a wall where, lo and behold, there was a ladder. It was newish, obviously added to the wall long after the creation of the building, and made of brick so as to blend into the very fabric of the wall. There were hand holds and foot holds - Sherlock was beside him and then, with a swoosh of coat, going up the ladder. With a shake of his head, because heights were really not his thing, John went after him.

Apparently there was a door or a hatch or something, and thankfully it was open, for John did not have to go back down the ladder when he reached the top. Instead, he crawled onto a wooden floor and cautiously got to his feet. Judging by Sherlock's wince and the gentle touches to his head, John was wary of hitting rafters. 

It was cold, a breeze blowing in from somewhere, bringing with it the fish-mud-seawater smell of the estuary. Sherlock turned and hunched his way forward. John followed, mindful that what he was walking on were merely wooden planks on top of rafters otherwise uncovered, and God only knew where stepping in between rafters would lead. Probably a swift death by one means or another. Apart from Sherlock's torch, the passageway was dark, and John still could not get his head around how they got the damned crates into the warehouse. Hopefully it was not important. 

One of the planks creaked, and Sherlock slowed, stopped altogether. He knelt, then lay completely flat. John had no room to manoeuvre around him, so hunkered down on his heels instead. Within seconds he heard the low murmur of voices. Were they coming from ahead of Sherlock, or below his own feet? Cocking his head to one side, John listened hard. Below, definitely below. He reached out and felt Sherlock's ankle. When Sherlock looked over his shoulder, John exaggerated pointing downwards.

There was just enough light for John to see Sherlock pursing his lips, less than impressed with John's detection skills. John shrugged. If he had been the one lying down, well. A person did their best no matter what the situation. The question was, what now? 

Sherlock answered by jumping to his feet like a giant cat; silently and with great grace. He crept ahead with infinite patience and placing each foot on the planks with concern. He stopped, and a moment later the area was plunged into absolute darkness. For a second John held his breath, released it as a line of dim light appeared at shoulder height. He blinked and Sherlock's curls were profiled, and then his head and the rectangle of his coat, ending in two trousered legs. So, wherever they were, the light was not necessarily going to give them away.

Eagerly following Sherlock, John soon found himself stepping down a five riser stairway, right into an beige office with a green-shaded banker's lamp and a dying ficus and an Apple laptop on a battered metal desk. What the hell? "The hell?" muttered John, looking back at the stairs and wondering what kind of outfit this was. Sherlock was already at the other door. One hand on the handle, he waited, staring into space, then opened it and stuck his damned fool head outside.

John resisted the urge to haul him bodily back into the office, instead making a mental note to have a firm talk about what was and was not permitted on a mission. Of course, that left him with no choice but to pursue Sherlock past the door and into…a hallway. Energy saving lighting was on, which meant every third ceiling fluorescent was on, which made John feel a little better. Sure, they would be seen by anyone they met, there would be no hiding away in a dark corner, yet there was a chance of surprise, a delayed call for help.

He hoped.

Despite the exterior of the building, and the nearly empty warehouse from which they had come, the interior was modern and clean, recently refurbished. They made their way down several hallways, coming to dead ends and having to retrace their steps to the previous corner. Doors were few and far between, all of them locked, key card slots inset into the door frames. Obviously whatever was going on was of utmost secrecy. 

Eventually they passed an industrial elevator. The cage was locked, but around the corner was a wide wooden stairway leading down. The lighting had not improved, and they crept down silently, John in the lead. On the landing he stopped and squatted, peering through the metal grating of the railing to see if anyone was below. Nothing. Tiptoeing down one riser at a time, Sherlock ghosting after him, John came to the next landing and peeked around the corner once more. This time there was no doubt whether or not they were alone; a voice carried down the hall.

" - on the carrier from Singapore. Find Avila and Cohen, make sure Cohen's got the deeds to the Westmore property in hand in case any questions are asked at the border."

John flatted against the wall as the speaker's footsteps grew nearer. The speaker slowed…there were scraping sounds, shoes against baseboard? Someone doing a soft shoe?

"Yeah, just like I said. Make sure that solicitor, Sullivan, get rid of any connection between him and Urquhart. Sholto doesn't need to know. Neither of them. Well, the dad's not much, but that other fucking arsehole knows everything. He'll use it to his advantage if he can…yeah, you're not wrong there…"

Come on, man, John thought, eager to get on the move. So much depended on whether or not the speaker noticed them, if he turned to go up the stairs or continued down the hallway. The way John saw it, he had two options: push the bloke against the wall or come up behind him, arm around his throat, hand on his mouth, pull him backwards - yeah, that was the ticket.

"…we're good? Cuz the next shipment comes from Bulgaria and Romania…Nah, we got new drivers…yeah, alright, ta-ra."

 _Ta_ -fucking- _ra_ indeed. Something alerted John to his prey's approach, maybe a shift in the air pressure, the scent of cologne, the sound of walking, the swish of fabric against fabric, whatever it was, he was prepared and moved as soon as the bloke stepped past the stairs. The man was busy with his phone, reading a text or playing a game, whatever it was, it was being done silently, so two paces past and John struck. With a single bound he shoved the man into the wall, hard, before throwing him backwards onto the floor. John was on him in an instant, forearm on his throat and pressing hard, the other hand over his mouth, shins pinning his forearms down. 

"Shut the fuck up," murmured John, sitting back on his heels and, consequently, the man's sternum as much as he could. Try shouting now, mister. He rode the man's struggles as if he were sitting on a mechanical bull. Nothing much to it, despite all observation to the contrary. Speaking of which - Sherlock? Regaining his balance once more, John looked up - Sherlock was checking their target's phone. "A little help here would be okay!"

"You're doing fine, John," answered Sherlock, peering intently at the tiny screen.

"Did you want to talk to him or should I put him out of his misery?" John had to hang on even more tightly at this, as his human bull redoubled his efforts.

"Just don't kill him, I'll want to talk to him."

Now that was just taking the mickey. "You'll talk to him _now_ or not at all!"

Sherlock gave John the side-eye, lips pursed, but he came over anyway, hunching down to stare the man in the eye. "Where are they being held?"

John felt the man's mouth move under his hand. For a second he debated whether or not to take his hand away, then slowly released the pressure. It would not take much to keep him quiet again, although that could the moment upon which everything turned. 

"Y'can have my wallet, my watch, anything you want, just don't hurt me!"

John managed not to roll his eyes. "Seriously, that's the best you can come up with?"

"John," rebuked Sherlock. "You're scaring him. Now tell me where Holmes is, or I'll let John have you, and you don't want that, do you?"

The man looked at John, who let one corner of his mouth curl up. That's right, mate, fear the Watson.

"You'll let me go? If I tell?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

"I don't know much," he said, suddenly relaxing underneath John. "Got a message to take Holmes and his secretary, hold 'em until further notice. Haven't heard another thing in days."

"And Doctor Lalonde?"

"Who?"

"Where is Mycroft Holmes?"

The man tried to tilt his head back towards the way he had come, instead only pressing his windpipe further against John's forearm. He quickly tucked his chin down, coughed. John sat up, took his weight off of the man's chest a little. Not enough to be thrown off, but enough to let him take a quick, deep breath. He immediately sat down again, ready to make sure the man did not make nary a whisper. And a good thing, too, as the man opened his mouth wide to yell for help.

John silenced him with a quick punch to his temple. A second later he grimaced, shaking his hand to relieve the pain. He shuffled down the man's legs, stripped the belt of his fashionably shiny suit trousers off. With Sherlock's help he rolled him over and hog tied him, hands to ankles. Another trick come in handy from Crowley. Not only did he cook a mean steak, he had also taught how to tie people up. Texans. John removed the striped yellow and navy tie, too, used it as a gag. John took the belt in hand at the knot and lifted, sort of kept the man's face off of the risers as he hauled him up to the landing. John did his best to keep his head from hitting the stairs, but hey, the bruises would fade. Eventually.

Sherlock did not help, content to keep fiddling with the damned phone. In the hopes of hiding his mis-deed, John shoved the man into the upper corner of the landing with his foot. He would be found sooner rather than later, but every second counted in this game. He trotted back to Sherlock and said, "Anything?"

"No. More contacts for Five to chase down."

"Well, let's go the way he came. There's bound to be someone else in this building we can chat with."

Sherlock shot him a hard, amused glance, which John returned. He bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to release more tension because yeah, he missed this giddy feeling. This was what people refused to understand about battle. Yes, it was terrifying and heartbreaking and you lost people you loved and a few that you hated and all those other adjectives, but those outside of it did not see camaraderie, the deep friendships, the sense of purpose. They had no clue what it was like to be aware of more than themselves, of knowing you would die for a fellow soldier, and be glad of it.

So it was with a little surprise, and more than a little rejoicing, that John found himself in such a position again. He had the fleeting thought that maybe, just maybe, if he married Sherlock, things would be like this all the time.

Yet there was still this building to be cleared before any of that could be discussed.

Once again, John took point. The hallway continued as the others had, newly renovated and mostly featureless. Doors were still opened by key card, and within a few minutes, the hall widened, and they came to a T junction. "Which way?" said John in a low tone. He was usually good with landmarks, but now he found himself completely turned around. Surely they were in another building, now? Outside it had not seemed particularly long or wide, yet clearly there must have been an entire complex behind that long outside wall as they had been walking for too long to still be in that building.

"Right," answered Sherlock, already walking that way in a swirl of coat. "You see, but fail to observe. Look, the fixtures of the lighting are fashionably new, the floorboards more heavily trodden, and so more highly polished. Due to the recent paint work there is no scuffing on the walls. You can still smell it - "

John gave an experimental sniff and yes, when he leaned closer the walls did have the nose-tingling scent of fresh paint. The fixture were brushed metal of some sort or another, with marbled milky glass shades. The floor, well, it _was_ very shiny.

" - and coffee."

"What?"

Sherlock stopped. "John. If you're going to continue to be obtuse, there is no point in joining me in my work. You simply _must_ keep up."

"I will, I am! And of course I can smell the coffee, it's my life's blood," said John. Besides, now that he actually had noticed the coffee odor permeating the air, he was not only desperate for a cup, but was actually starving as well. Teach him for throwing away a perfectly good sandwich. 

Before Sherlock could say another word, a tall black woman wearing jeans, white trainers, and a black leather biker's jacket over a mango colored blouse walked around the corner at the next T junction. She stopped, as did they. 

"S'cuse me," said John cheerily, strutting up to her as if he had all the right in the world to be in the hallway. "Have you seen Avila or Cohen? We're supposed to meet with them soon."

She looked him up and down warily. "Avila?"

"Yeah, he's got the deeds we need."

"Oh, right. Haven't seen you two around before?"

"Why should you," said Sherlock imperiously. "You're rarely here either."

At that, she snorted, having apparently decided they were okay. "Too right. Place gives me the creeps."

John nodded. "I don't much feeling like a rat in a trap, y'know?"

"Tell me about it. I haven't seen Avila, but Cohen's in Fineman's office," she turned, pointed. "Down that way, take the stairs up to the next floor, then left and down two flights. Can't miss it."

"Thanks…?" John let his thanks turn into a question.

"Lila," she said, her hazel gaze flicking over him anew. "Lila Pritchard."

John smiled, looking directly into the eyes. "John Buchanan."

"Nice to meet you, John Buchanan."

"If you're done flirting, we have business to attend to," said Sherlock, sweeping past Pritchard with a nearly visible aura of hostility.

John followed, turning to walk backwards. "I'm going to call you, Lila Pritchard."

"You do that, John Buchanan," she called back, the barest hint of a pleased expression on her face.

Jogging to catch up to Sherlock, who was already heading down the stairs, John said, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous."

Pointedly ignoring him, Sherlock said, "Odds are she'll mention us to the next person she meets."

"Or we're walking into a trap. Best hurry then," For all that the situation was rife with the possibility of one or both of them ending up dead, John could not help but be utterly amused by Sherlock's transparency. He just was not sure if it was because Sherlock considered John to be his - and John had noticed Sherlock's possessiveness - or if women were so foreign a species he could not be bothered with them. Either way, it was damned funny.

Pritchard's directions were true. On the second set of stairs, the modern decorations stopped at the landing, as if the decorators had run out of money. Even the edge of the plaster was ragged, droplets of buff paint carelessly flung onto the raw brick. But then everything changed once again, except it was a rehash of the original warehouse in more brick and cast iron industrial pipework.

Fineman's 'office' turned out to be nearly the entirety of the floor. It surely ran the length and breadth of whatever building they were in, the ceiling supported by cast iron girders, the floor more of the highly polished wood. If anything, John was reminded of pictures of factories he had seen of the Industrial Revolution. All the room was missing were giant mechanical looms of Victorian design. From the ceiling shone green shaded metal lamps with cream interiors, their bulbs the size of grapefruits. Very retro. There were several desks, each with computer and landline. A coffee and tea station was set up to John's right, practically under the stairs themselves. Along the windowless walls hung charts of the world, maritime shipping routes, motivational posters.

Motivational posters?

 _Some_ one had a sense of humour. On the far left were three doors, one of which stood open. Bypassing the cones of light from the overhead lamps, John and Sherlock walked to the closest door, peered inside. Overhead fluorescents were on, buzzing and crackling and blinking, but no one sat at the executive table within. 

The second door lead to a foyer with a sink and narrow closet, and a single unisex toilet.

The third door was not fully closed. Even so, it was noticeably warmer and very close inside, the smell of Human. Before John had a chance to stop him, Sherlock reached past him and flicked the switch on the wall. Unbelievable. However, that was not the biggest surprise.

The room was entirely empty apart from two wooden, ladder backed chairs, upon which were tied two people, each with hoods over their heads. One male, one female. 

Without hesitation John headed towards the woman first, making sure to stay on her far side so he could keep an eye on the door. He loved it when it was easy to see who was who, and in this case the shiny high heels and grey tweed skirt suit were great clues. "Keep your eyes closed," he said, removing the hood neither too quickly nor too slowly. Ah, she was also gagged and blindfolded. "I know you want to look, but it's going to be very bright in here when you open your eyes. You won't do any permanent damage if you can't help yourself, but I can assure you the headache won't be worth it."

The knot on the gag was too tight for him to undo, but he managed to loosen it just enough to get it out of her mouth. "Can you talk? Are you alright?"

She jerked a nod, trembling so hard he could feel the chair shaking. 

The knot on the blindfold was just loose enough for him to remove it easily, only taking a little bit of her hair with it. "Can you tell me your name? Keep your eyes closed, okay?" John looked over at Sherlock, who was performing the same tasks on the seated man. 

"Brother mine," rasped Mr. Holmes' normally dulcet tones as soon as his gag had been removed. "What took you so long?"

"We suspect Whitehall's involvement," answered Sherlock, undoing first one foot, then the other, from the chair legs. "And Harry Pearce did not want my help."

"Oh!" the woman gasped, holding her hands up to her face. "I can't see!"

"Let me look," John said, crouching by her side. He took her by the wrists and forced her arms down onto her lap. A wave of old floral perfume and overworked deodorant hit him, along with a surge of protective lust. Oh god, what the hell? He unobtrusively sniffed - ah, delicious burnt caramel. Okay, she was an Omega, that was fine, it was all fine, he would handle her like he would handle any other patient in need. Thank God Thaddeus had let that one slip when John had been around to hear it. 

'"Like candy," he had said to Peter, sipping a glass of brandy while Peter brushed his new, petrol colored Ozwald Boateng suit free of any spare cracker crumbs. "You're just a beta, but trust me, it's not an odor you can resist once you smell it."'

John licked his lips, wrapping the blindfold around one fist. "Let the light bleed through your fingers. You'll tear up a lot, but that's good, you want your eyes to do that, it'll help them adjust."

"You brought Dr. Watson with you, how delightful," said Mr. Holmes.

"Yes of course, what was I supposed to do, leave him at home like a good little Omega? Because that's not what he's for," snapped Sherlock, standing up and stalking towards the door. "Do hurry up, Mycroft, we haven't much - "

"No, no you haven't."

 _Shit._ John stepped away from the woman to make room for himself now that the worst had come to pass. And who was in the lead? Lila Pritchard, of course. She smirked at him as she came into the room, and he just could not help himself from acknowledging her choice with a little up-nod of his own. Maybe she had found his man on the landing. No point in thinking about what could have been, time to concentrate on what was and what would be.

Pritchard was followed by a bevy of men. The first was slim, ginger, wearing a well-fitted tailored summer suit in pale blue. All he needed was a straw boater to have stepped out from Howard's End, and the only reason John even knew that was because it was Emma's favorite movie and she had made him watch it every damned weekend. The worst part was that she had been _Clara's_ girlfriend, not his. Behind Summer Suit came the heavies, one of whom was actually chewing gum in the most obnoxious way possible.

"Pray, don't move on our account," said Summer Suit. He put his hands in his pockets. "It'll be so much easier to kill you all now that you've so conveniently decided to gather here for me. My great thanks."

Jesus Christ… _really?_ People actually talked like this outside of Bond films?

"I want Mr. Holmes kept alive. He doesn't have to be in any fit state beyond the ability to talk. Or, oh! Should I sell you on? I'm sure there are many others who would love to get their hands upon your person. Am I right, Mr. Holmes?"

"Indeed you are, Mr. Cohen," answered Mr. Holmes, still resolutely keeping his eyes closed, John was glad to see. His own patient was breathing rapidly, the rise and fall of her chest quite visible from the movement of her blouse.

"You always have to have the last word, don't you," drawled Cohen. He motioned ahead of himself. "Take those two down to holding, keep the others here, and this time, lock the bloody door behind you when you leave."

The heavies moved in to the room. Gum chewer headed towards John, while the other two went for Sherlock. Clearly none of them were expecting trouble - or at least they weren't from John, which was the mistake everyone made.

Admittedly, they only ever made it once, though.

John kept himself as loose as he dared. He caught the flash of a side eye from Sherlock, then his heavy - taller than himself, big build, probably had a lot of muscle under that ripstop navy windcheater - was reaching for him and John kicked him in the knee. A side blow, so as not to have his own leg grabbed. 

It almost worked, the heavy grunted and partly crumpled, then recovered and lunged at John. John was aware that something was happening over by Sherlock, but ignored it in favor of trying not to get killed. The heavy got him up against the wall, hands around John's neck, then John kneed him in the groin - repeatedly. After the third time the heavy emitted a high pitched noise and slipped to the floor, where John kicked him in the knee again for good measure. And once in the head, because in this kind of situation it paid to make sure.

Straightening up, John took the entire scene in with one glance. The woman he had freed was squinting at Mr Holmes, while Sherlock was struggling with two men, one in front and one in back. There was a glint of metal and a gun fell to the floor, sliding to the back of the room when Sherlock's foot hit it. _Browning P266_ and John leapt over his heavy's body to reach the weapon before Pritchard did. By some miracle he got to it first and swung up, halting her in her tracks. 

Unfortunately now Sherlock was facing him, another gun to his head, the heavy behind him grinning and flushed with excitement. John had seen that look before in some of his comrades. Good in a firefight so long as they remembered who the enemy was, and even then they had to be watched in case they did unfortunate things. "Right then, let him go."

"You're joking, mate!" said the heavy, who was taller than Sherlock and twice as broad. "Nah, I ain't lettin' go of no-one!"

John smiled a little. Yeah, no, this was not going to happen like that. "If you don't let him go, I'm going to shoot you in the head."

"John - " Began Sherlock, but John cut him off with a sharp glance.

" _Joo-oo_ hnn!" mocked Heavy #3, who was holding Sherlock's arms behind his back. 

Seriously? 

"If you're done playing games, I have other things to attend to," announced Mr. Holmes, slowly getting to his feet. Unbelievably, he actually buttoned his jacket as he rose, looking as if the world was still his oyster despite the early beginnings of a thick beard and the creases in his suit.

The heavy behind Sherlock looked at Mr. Holmes and barked, "Sit back down, or I'- "

The bullet took the man right above his left eyebrow, because that was farthest away from Sherlock. The side of the man's head sprayed out over Lila Pritchard, who staggered back into Cohen, her chest and face splattered with blood and tan brain matter. Her mouth opened to scream, which John heartily felt she should not do, because who knew what kind of diseases her acquaintance had? There could be Creutzfeldt-Jakob, HIV, or more likely she could get Kuru. John had first hand experience of Kuru, something not even on his worst enemy would he wish. 

Heavy #2 released Sherlock to vomit noisily onto the floor. Sherlock helped with the process by grabbing the back of his jacket and slamming him headfirst into the wall. Sherlock let him go and he collapsed onto the floor, right next to his dead companion. Sherlock tugged on his coat to resettle it, staring at John as if he had never seen him before all the while. 

John brought his full attention back to Cohen and Pritchard. She was hyperventilating, now, which made John totally reassess his feelings on her competency. Or maybe he had just fallen into what Billy had called 'the fallacy of the leather jacket'. John felt Billy had been entirely too fond of Marx and Chomsky and whatever quasi-philosopher he had found for the day. Chicks in leather biker jackets were not necessarily the toughest kids on the block, that was what he had forgotten. Besides, she was pretty.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes?" asked John, keeping an eye on Pritchard while stepping over the legs of his heavy.

"Yes, John, thank you," said Mr. Holmes, moving to the aid of his lady friend. "Anthea and I would like to leave now."

"Let's all do that, shall we," answered John, walking past Sherlock to Pritchard. Cohen remained standing behind her, frozen in place. He had escaped the worst of the mess, but blood had still sprayed over his suit jacket and formerly pristine white shirt. John waved the gun at them a little bit. "Come on, out into the other room, and then we can all have a nice little chat."

It was only when he had walked through the door, himself, that it occurred to him that it would have been the matter of a moment for either Cohen or Pritchard to simply shut the damned door and lock it. There would have been no escape, as there was no matching key pad or card slot on the inside of the room. He repressed a shudder at the imagery that came to mind, before telling himself to calm down, nothing had actually happened. Well, apart from him killing a person and injuring another. Odd, how little that bothered him. He had always thought that being back in civilian life would have a calming effect, rather than a constant push towards danger. 

Outside, Sherlock was arranging Pritchard and Cohen on a desk. Their hands were behind their backs, so John felt free in assuming Sherlock had tied them up. To one side, Mr. Holmes was speaking into a desk phone in a low tone of voice, while the door to the toilet gently swung on its hinges. The only person not in the room was Holmes' female companion, who must have been desperate for the toilet and a place to wash. Come to think of it, so was he. First things first, however.

Sherlock stepped away from the desk to face their two prisoners. "Why here? Why such a pristine location for office space. You could have sold this building to an architectural firm and made millions. Why continue the charade when all you're really doing is selling human beings?"

Mr. Holmes' shoulders twitched, and John had to agree; the likelihood of Sherlock caring about the little people was indeed an entirely laughable subject, and he had known him for all of three days.

"Or is it that you just like being a criminal? Yes, you like being sneaky, you like having a great big secret that you can use on your compatriots. Is that how you sucked in Thaddeus Sholto? Oh, no, you worked with the Major? Or was it just chance acquaintance?"

Cohen broke first, shaking his head. "You know how much an unbonded Omega goes for? Thousands. And our buyers aren't even Alphas. Most of them are Betas, middlemen to the powerful, members of state governments," He snorted, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "You know what it's like, everyone wants their own private sex freak desperate to be fucked."

That was…John felt the shock of such a bald statement like the literal punch to the gut. It spread outwards until he was flushed with shame and anger, he could feel the heat rising from his cheeks. Laughing about that with your mates was one thing when you were just a normal person, just a Beta, hearing the same from someone who _actually trafficked humans_ , for the sake of their own pleasure - it made him wonder if that was how everyone viewed him, now that he was Omega, even if only Variant. And it made him worry about the future. 

"How did you find them?" asked Mr. Holmes, leaning against the edge of another desk with folded arms. Despite his recent ordeal, he looked completely at his ease. 

"Omegas are a pain in the arse - " Cohen wiggled his eyes, as if to say, 'see what I did there?' " - so needy and demanding. A poor family who needs the money," he shrugged. 

"That's disgusting," snapped John. "Those are people you're talking about, not cattle!"

"Please, like you'd know," said Cohen, giving him the once over. "You couldn't afford an Omega on your best day, you'd fucking love it if one dropped into your lap like a holiday sweet."

"So you used Thaddeus Sholto as a middle man," said Sherlock, frowning ever so slightly.

"Yeah. He's the mate of a mate - "

"You mean Mr. Fineman."

"Sure, whatever. He agreed to get the drivers and their visas, find the routes into the country," Cohen shrugged. "Y'know, the usual."

"For a small fee."

Cohen tilted his head to one side and winked. Next to him, Pritchard looked at him askance and made an attempt to slide away and distance herself. 

Too late for that. John said, "Hey," shaking his head at her. 

"I didn't know," she said.

"Of course you didn't," he scoffed. "What did you think you were doing, delivering pineapples?" She had very dark skin, but he was still able to see how mortified she was when her face tightened.

"I never saw anybody, I mean, not like you see in the movies. Sometimes I drove people here and there. They all spoke English, or most of them did. Sometimes they were a little out of it, but, y'know, who isn't after hours of travel?" She frowned, and John could actually see when it clicked for her.

"Oh shit," she said, closing her eyes tightly. After a moment, in a very small voice, she said, "I've been very stupid, haven't I?"

Yeah right, whatever. John could not excuse her ignorance. It was hardly rocket science, recognizing when something was wrong. He had done things in Afghanistan, in the field, that he tried not to think too deeply about. The things he had seen. On two occasions he had made reports, though he had never discovered what had become of them. People were sent around willy nilly, mates you knew from one day might be transferred to some other hot spot or even back to Camp Bastion with but a moment's notice. And she was a criminal, for the love of God. There was no way he would ever believe she did not know on some level that what she was doing was wrong. She was just too bright to play the fool, and if she thought she could play him for a fool, too, then she really _was_ a fool. 

"I think we have what we need for now," said Mr. Holmes. "Dr. Watson, perhaps you could check on Anthea? My staff should be here shortly and I know she would like to be presentable."

Okay…something had just happened here, and John was not sure what it was. A subtle change in atmosphere, as if Mr. Holmes were the man in charge. Although Mr. Holmes had never behaved as if he was _not_ in charge, come to think of it. Like it mattered, anyhow.

John knocked once-twice on the foyer door, peeked around the corner. "Anthea? Mr. Holmes asked me to collect you."

At once the bathroom door opened. Anthea had washed the grime from her face and hands, and she no longer smelled of burnt caramel. Either John's mercurial nose had stopped noticing her sexual availability, or she had done a very thorough wash with paper towels and liquid soap, and he did not smell soap. Must be his irregular Variant self, then. Which was a relief, because she had been very distracting, and not in a good way. Though they had yet to discuss it, John was convinced Sherlock would not want a third party involved in their marriage.

"What about you, Dr. Watson? Are you alright?"

John smiled. "Me? I'm fine."

He held the door open for him and she slipped by. In the main room were a few more people now, busily taking Cohen and Pritchard and the two living heavies up the stairs. Peeking into the room where Mr. Holmes had been held, John saw a cleanup crew hard at work. Paper suits, booties, the lot. That was nice, the odor of blood, no matter how fresh, was never pleasant. As a doctor he had gotten used to it, of course, you had to, to do the job.

"John, it's time for us to go," called Sherlock. He held out a steaming cup of…tea? 

John eagerly took it, not even minding the milk and sugar. He burned his tongue, did not care. It was good and milky and sweet and reminded him of the tea he used to drink as a child at his Granddad's, God bless him. Halfway through his cup he realized Sherlock was staring at him quizzically. "What?"

"That was good. What you did. In there."

Not quite how he would have put it. "Ta very much, Sherlock."

He turned to face the woman approaching them. She had large blue eyes and short blonde hair, jeans and a leather jacket, which left John a little wary. Two leather clad women in one night turned out to be the stuff of nightmares rather than dreams. At least he felt he had come up to the mark in the stare she gave him. 

"Hi, I'm Jo. I'm here to take your statements."

"Can't it wait?" 

"Sherlock," John chided. Always best to get the reports right out of the way. Sleep on it and you might lose the important bits. Sherlock shot him a glare but ultimately acquiesced. John expected her to whip out pen and paper, but from her bag she produced a phone. Modern technology, he loved it.

"Don't worry, I won't be sending this via wifi. I'll bring it back to the office directly," At John's blank look, she continued. "I work for Harry Pearce. I saw you when Zaf brought you in the other night. Impressive work you've done here," she said, tilting her head back towards the room where he had killed his heavy.

"That reminds me, somewhere there might be a bloke tied up on a stairwell landing," said John.

Jo shook her head. "Sorry, mate, they're long gone."

"What's going to happen to Cohen and Pritchard?" 

"Well, happily, you've done enough of the legwork for us to do the paperwork," she fiddled with her phone, looked pleased at its dee- _deet_ of acceptance. She held it up to her mouth. "Sorry, new phone."

Much to Sherlock's obvious impatience, Jo replayed the recording to make sure it was functioning properly. "Okay, looks like we're all set to go. Shall we take a seat?"

By the time the interview was complete, John was utterly exhausted. He found himself opening his eyes abruptly and repeatedly, as if he had gone to blink and forgotten to lift his lids afterward. The feeling was familiar, and even though the tea would keep him going for a little while longer, the end was coming rapidly. Maybe Sherlock thought the same, for he suddenly stood.

"We're done here. If you want more, you can wait until John has slept. Come by at seven this evening. He'll be ready."

Jo stared at Sherlock, looked at John, nodded. "Fine. Seven it is."

For a second John considered giving their address, then shook his head at his own sleep deprived brain. Jo was MI5, of course she knew where they lived. His legs feeling like lead, John stood as well, surprised to see Mr. Holmes and Anthea still in the room. Yet as he stared at them, they began to move towards the stairs.

There was a gentle touch on his shoulder. "Time to go, John."

John went in the direction the hand was pushing him towards, so he ended up following Mr. Holmes and Anthea up the stairs, down more hallways until they were suddenly outside. Someone called Sherlock's name, and then John was sliding into the back of a car and Sherlock's solid presence was next to him. The next thing that happened was of climbing 221B's now familiar stairs, and then he was in a bed, pillow soft beneath his cheek, sheets fragrant with lavender and sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

> Earlham wallpaper by [de Gournay](http://www.degournay.com/wf_chinoiserie.php), see **page 25** for the precise color of Sherlock's grandmere's _cabinet de toilette_. Earlham can also be seen in various iterations on pages 6, 8, and 16. It makes me want all the moneh.
> 
> So! There's only one more part left! The sexytimes are coming...so to speak. Heh. But! I do not know when I will be posting. Hopefully before the month is out, however it might be equally be December.


End file.
